Before and After
by Citrine
Summary: Two scenes with Bilbo and Pippin in Rivendell, chatting about trolls, before the Quest and after. Rated B for bittersweet.


For Lindelea, who wanted to see a fic with two scenes: Bilbo and Pippin in discussion, talking about trolls, at Rivendell.

Part 1. Before the Fellowship leaves on the Quest  
Part 2. After the Fellowship gets back from the Quest

**Before and After**

_For Lin_

Before

Golden morning light fell through the tall window, shining on the old hobbit seated in the deep armchair. There were books stacked at his feet, and a big volume was laid across his lap. A table was pulled close beside the chair, holding a plate covered with crumbs of cake, an inkwell and a quill, a bit of parchment for taking notes, a teaspoon, and a cooling cup of tea. His curly grey head was bowed, and to anyone looking in he might have appeared in deep thought, as one hand rested on the page and the other was propped under his chin, but in truth he was on the verge of a nice nap. As a writer Bilbo knew one must often do a lot of research and digging to know one's subject well, and while the subject itself might be exciting, often the excavation was a terribly dull affair.

The feel of a hand on his arm brought him awake with a startled snort, and Pippin, whose hand it had been, leaped back in surprise. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, Bilbo, I didn't mean to wake you."

"Wake me?" Bilbo said, blinking like an owl. "Not at all, not at all. I was just resting my eyes a bit." He sat up a little straighter. "What can I do for you, lad?"

Pippin dug his furry toes into the carpet and moved his hands restlessly, putting them behind his back, and then clasping them in front. "Oh, nothing really, I was just looking to see if you wanted a bit of company. I'm feeling a bit lost, I'm afraid."

Bilbo smiled and peered over his spectacles, a gift from his old friend Gloin, and a lovely boon for old eyes. "Now why would a fidgety young fellow like yourself come looking for a sleepy old fellow like me, eh? Frodo and Merry busy, I suppose?"

Pippin sighed. "Yes, Frodo is having some sort of important chat with Master Elrond and Gandalf and Str...Aragorn, and Merry is in the library, wearing his eyes out with peering at old maps." Pippin looked very young then. "He was sharp with me."

"Hm," Bilbo said. "And did you deserve it?"

"No," Pippin said, all big, blameless eyes, and then he blushed. "Yes. I wanted him to come for a walk and he wouldn't get away from the table and, ah, I upset his inkbottle. Accidentally, honest and truly. I don't think the map is destroyed, but Merry's shirt is certainly a ruin."

Bilbo laughed so hard that Pippin couldn't help but laugh, too. Bilbo's spectacles, spattered with tears of amusement, danced down the end of his nose until they fell off the end. Luckily they were hanging around his neck on a long silk cord, another gift for forgetful old hobbits. "Ah, you need a place to go to ground, then! Well, pull up a stool, my boy, and I shall make you my research assistant until the storm blows over."

Pippin went and fetched a stool (sized for hobbits, luckily, as was most of the furniture in Bilbo's rooms,) so he didn't tower over the old hobbit, but remained at a level where he could easily rest his arm on the chair. "Here I am, at your service. What are we studying?"

"Trolls," Bilbo said, shifting the book so that Pippin might look at a rather terrifying illustration, made by some talented Elf long, long before. "I thought I might write, oh, not a book, perhaps, but an informed treatise on the brutes to be kept here in Elrond's library, just for the sake of future knowledge. It's a little side project of mine. They're a fascinating subject, really."

Pippin shivered, remembering stumbling across the great stone trolls before arriving at Rivendell. "Brr. Beastly things, I've already seen them in stone, I hope I may never see one alive."

"You may not," Bilbo said very seriously. "They are growing fewer and farther between, if my reading tells me rightly."

"Perhaps," Pippin said, his voice dropping, and he unconsciously leaned a little closer for comfort. "Perhaps they are not growing fewer, perhaps they are all going..._there_." He put on a brave, careless show when in mixed company, but here, away from Merry and Frodo, he could reveal himself: He scarcely dared mention Mordor aloud. It left a sour taste that dried his mouth, like the taste of copper pennies, and as a very little, very curious hobbit, that was a taste he had become quite familiar with.

'That could be," Bilbo said. "But then again, it may also be they have simply come to the end of their dominion, passing away like dragons." Now Bilbo sighed. "And Elves. Everything has a time to come, and a time to go, and sometimes the world is so much less miraculous than it was when they are gone."

"You almost have me feeling sorry for the trolls," Pippin said.

Bilbo chuckled. "Well, I meant it of the Elves, not of trolls. That's a thing that _should_ pass away, the sooner the better."

"Quite right," Pippin said fervently. Just his luck, the Dark Land would be hopping with the big buggers, and he would have to practically elbow them out of the way to help Frodo find the Mountain of Fire. Though he sincerely hoped not. "I'll tell you, Bilbo, if they are dwindling as you say-and I hope they are! -I shall certainly try to keep my wits and remember all that I can if I do happen to see one, and when the Quest is done I shall come back and tell you everything for your little book."

Bilbo looked at Pippin's bright face, and a sudden, nameless fear seized him, as if something terrible had been wished into being, and foolish tears came to his eyes. Oh, how he prayed that this good soul would never, never come near a single troll, ever. Keep your book, he said silently, making a bargain with fate, or doom, or whatever powers moved the world. If it comes to that, I don't want it. I don't want another word of it. He's worth more than a thousand books. "Is that a deal, young hobbit?"

Pippin didn't notice Old Bilbo's tears, or perhaps he thought it merely the dust of ancient parchment making his eyes damp. He held out his hand. "It is."

To his surprise, Bilbo didn't shake hands to seal the bargain, but merely took hold of Pippin's small, warm hand and held it. "You look to yourself first, Pippin-my-lad. If it comes to the worst, fight with all of your might, never stop trying, no matter how hard it may seem. Don't think of gathering facts, or pleasing an old hobbit, just look to yourself. Understand?"

"Yes sir," Pippin said quietly, a bit puzzled. Things had gotten so serious, and Bilbo had such a strange look. "Do you...do you still want me to take some notes for you?"

There now, he had given the boy a fright, and what on earth had possessed him to act so silly anyway? It was if someone had drawn back a dark curtain to show a peek of something dreadful, and then just as quickly let it fall again, and perhaps there had never really been anything scary there at all. Ah, the foolishness of old age, leaping at shadows. Bilbo laughed weakly and rubbed his eyes, then gathered up the cord and tucked his dangling spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. He clapped the big book closed, making enough dust of ages rise to tickle his nose, then plopped it back on the pile with a loud thud. "No, no more of that! How about we go for that walk?"

Pippin jumped off the stool, his good humour restored. "Splendid!" His eyes twinkled. "I shall try to walk slow, for the sake of your ancient bones."

Bilbo put on a mock scowl and hoisted his cane. "That's enough sauce out of you. Just for that, I will write a treatise on how to properly thrash young hobbits."

Pippin made a face and rubbed his backside. "Merry will be all a-fire for it, I'm sure."

They both laughed and walked out into the hall together, admiring the airy space and tall arches of Rivendell, and Pippin, still so young, did not find it strange to walk while clasping Bilbo's hand.

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After

Silvery streaks of rain ran down the tall window, casting twisting shadows on the face of the young hobbit seated in the deep armchair. There was a sheaf of pages in his hand, loosely bound with cord. A table was pulled close beside the chair, holding a saucer with an empty teacup, and a plate with a barely-nibbled bit of bread and meat, the crust growing stale. Pippin's curly brown head leaned on his hand, and his gaze was far away. The rain and damp were making his ribs ache as if he had been crushed all over again, and he couldn't sleep.

The door creaked open, and shuffling footsteps approached his chair. Pippin smiled. "Hullo, Bilbo. Couldn't sleep, either?"

Bilbo was still in his nightshirt and dressing gown, and his hair, grown ever so much whiter, was in a wild tangle, as if he had run his fingers through it. "Oh, it's the sound of the rain, I think. I used to quite like it, but now it reminds me of something. It gets into my dreams and keeps me waking up." His hands fidgeted with the ties of his gown. "Do you mind a bit of company?"

"Not at all," Pippin said. "Here, come sit beside me, it will be warmer that way." All the chairs in this sitting room were built for Men or Elves, and Pippin's legs dangled, but it was cushy and soft, and so wide that he didn't have to fear bumping some old wound or aching joint. Bilbo came over and Pippin carefully boosted him up, grunting a little as the strain pulled at his ribs and chest, then he also climbed up and settled back with a relieved sigh. "There we are."

Bilbo peered at the pages in Pippin's hand. He had forgotten his spectacles somewhere. "What are you reading there?"

"Oh, these are the notes for that book of yours, I hope you don't mind." Bilbo looked a bit lost. "Remember that little book of lore you were going to write, all about trolls? You made quite a lot of notes."

Bilbo scratched his head and chuckled. "Did I? Looks as though I made a good start, but there were so many other things on my mind, what with the Great War, and all the worry that came with it, I never quite got around to putting it all together." He leaned in. "I seem to have lost that old ring of mine somehow, and it did bother me a great deal, I don't quite remember why. It doesn't seem very important now."

"It's not, now," Pippin said. "You know, I've been sitting here thinking. I did happen to see a great lot of trolls all at once-one much closer than I would have liked-and I promised to tell you if I happened to run across any trolls in my travels, and instead a troll ran across _me_, and all my wits ran right out of my head." He laughed a little. "I'm afraid I didn't take down a single note. I'm very sorry, Bilbo."

It was hard to keep parchment and ink at hand on one's travels abroad. Bilbo patted his hand, commiserating, and though the four returning hobbits had found him much older and more peaceful and sleepier than he had been, at that moment he sounded to Pippin quite like his old self, almost as if he had pen in hand. "Don't fret yourself, dear lad. Just tell me what you remember, if it's not too dreadfully dark to speak of it."

Pippin put his cheek on the top of Bilbo's head. It was much easier now that he was so tall. He felt very tired, suddenly. "It _was_ dreadfully dark, and so awfully heavy. My right arm was pinned, and I pushed with my left as best I could, but it was like pressing up against a mountain built of hide and stench. I can never tell Merry or Frodo or Sam how it felt, it would hurt them too much, so I let them think I don't remember. I wish I could forget. It hurt to die; I never imagined hurt like that, ever. And even now I hurt, not so terribly, but it's there. It's makes me afraid sometimes. How will I go back to who I was? Can I go back? I feel so much older than I look, my ribs and my chest ache so, especially when it rains..."

Bilbo let the familiar sound of the young lad's voice carry him away, and he knew that there was something important being said, but he was falling gently and the words were like the murmur of the rain, like the hush of the sea that he heard in his dreams. He was awake enough to feel long, cool fingers curl around his own, and Bilbo did not find it strange to clasp Pippin's hand, the hand of a young boy now grown so much older in his heart, as he fell asleep.

The end


End file.
